Retake
by Wingless Rain
Summary: It won't stop.
1. Introduction

Retake: Zelda

* * *

Introduction. 

-

It's always like this; believe it or not.

"Why aren't you running around? Or playing with that fucking horse?" whine, whine, whine. "Huh?" nag. "Don't you have a princess to save? What about badguys to kill, or items to obtain and hoard?"

"Shut up," you cannot imagine the hatred I feel on a daily basis. "Your voice constantly stops my train - grind it to a massive halt of death, then you hijack it for your own greedy needs and desires."

It's a faery, you see, a tiny, tiny faery. The kind that buzzes around like a fly. Never good for anything, and never once interesting or even remotely inspiring.  
Gender? I don't know.  
Age? I don't know.  
Looks? I don't know.  
Any details worth mentioning? I don't know.  
Why? How the hell should I know?

So I suck on a straw of grass, back against more of it, eyes locked on the ever-blue sky above. Well, that's not entirely true, since it changes to black or gray whenever I'm supposed to do something dramatic and overused.  
Like saving the princess, or killing the badguy.

Okay, so that was another lie - two.  
It's not saving; it's routine. And it's not so much killing as it is defeating. Boring, boring, boring.

Silence.  
"Yeah, so," pass a gloved hand across my not-so-masculine chin, "when was the last time I scored?"

Then it flies right into my face, the shine blinding and numbing, like an acid-trip, or the bling of a thousand niggers, and I know what it's going to bitch about.  
"Oh, like, never?" so very, very sad. Thing sprinkles a ton of glittering shit all over my face. "Remember that you're doing this to be nice. It's like charity, only it somehow pays less."

I can't say a single thing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.  
Pain and discomfort, not to mention displeasure, and the feeling that I'm even less than the man I supposedly dress up as each day.

So time passes.

-

Adjust stuff, for the hell of it. Green tunic, white tights. Like He-man, only slightly different, and more gay.  
"Well, shit," getting frustrated. "How the hell did I end up being the hero?"

It finally settles on my nose, and just sits there. Or stand. Or lies.  
Or whatever.  
"It's part of being you," it frowns, "and you're the best of them all at being you."

"So just what am I?" I deserve an explanation.

"You're the hero of the show," it's definitely lying on its side. "You've got a sword, a shield, a bow, magical arrows, a female voice, feminine traits, a gender-confused nature, a giant horse to compensate for your lack of proper gear," it never stops, "a knot-equipped alter-ego, flails, hookshots, boomerangs," why can't this nightmare end? "pointed ears, toned and fit muscles, sticks, lamps, candles, hammers, masks," why me? "hearts, party-powder, absinthe, virgin blood, fish, blood of kings, mancum, scales, birds, obscene letters from fans, long poles, something to," snap, "practice your lips o-"

Right hand goes out like a lightning bolt, and strikes just like one. Just a flick, a sweep - something that it should have avoided, but it didn't.  
The tiny thing's sent flying straight away from me, trailing glitter and muffled curses as it carves through the air like the fly it truly is.

-

VT2 - 2007


	2. Shut up

"Shut up!"

* * *

Horse isn't so bad, really, but the saddle sucks, I have to bribe the beast with carrots, and.  
Yes, it sucks, but that's fine and okay, because I'm a grown, mature, man, and I can handle setbacks - even great ones such as my life, my general existence, and the gnawing sensation that I wasn't supposed to have lasted this long.

"You suck so much cock I could sell your saliva to a spermbank!" and there's a fine reason for why I haven't killed that thing yet. You see, since last time, it's kept well away from my fingers, and the rest of me. So what else is new? "Yeah, that's probably the only thing you're good at!"

"What?" we're riding all over creation, for reasons unknown. Swear we've been out for like twenty hours, yet it's still all bright and shit. "What am I good at? Do tell."

"Blowing, you faery!" racist cunt. Things usually end up this way. I'm mismatched, distorted, stupefied, and wrong. I shouldn't be this way, look this way, or feel this way. I'm supposed to have a dick, and should act accordingly. "All you ever do is suck on musical instruments, or wave wands around. It's all about the waving, the sucking, and the constant blowing. You never do anything else!" grumble. "Ever!"

Bitch back.  
"You're the faery, not me," death is just the escape it wants, craves - but I won't give it that. Oh no, no no no. We'll settle things, once I get my hands on it. Ripping wings, and stuff. "Haven't you noticed my ears?"

"Shut up!" for some reason, the sun begins to set. "You're a faery, and a big one. No, the biggest one. You probably dream of stuffing angry, hairy men up with that collection of long and thick stuff you keep beneath your skin-tight outfit."

Darkness.  
"I have needs too, you know," I feel so middle-aged. Nothing matters at this point - nothing. The power held between my legs is alien, unfamiliar, and too much alive to ever be within my reach. Maybe I should switch to corpses, instead of brewing white, white wine every single night. "Besides, it's not my fault that I was born this way."

"Well, of course not," assured. All mocking. "I mean, it wasn't your choice to keep the green and white around - heavens no! That one's entirely on someone else, same with your pansy voice, and your urges to surround yourself with crackheaded shit and long, thick items." Voice. Voice. Voice.

My voice is that of angels.  
It's like sugar, coated in chocolate, female cum, period blood, severed horse dicks, decapitated babies, and torn hymens. Oh, it's bad.

Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad - but not bad to the bone.

"Fuck you too, thing," then I stick my left middle up to it, much to its displeasure. God, I am such a rebel. You don't ever give me lip unpunished. "Yeah, that's what you should do. Fuck yourself, hard and fast."

Frown, more sneers, more annoying flying.  
Then the horse stops for no reason whatsoever.

Survey.  
"Aw, did the pony tire of you finally?" it's just a green fucking field, like so many before it. Hardly any trees, or any roads, or anything. Water's a luxury we don't have in Hyrule. 'But what about forests?' Yeah, there are some, but you don't want to visit them, no, because they're packed with stupid shit that doesn't make sense, like treasure chests strewn all over the place, masked people that flash dick if you get too near, husbands messing around with livestock, female ninjas with a passion for evil, wives messing around with livestock, and chickens.

Don't hit the chickens. Trust me.  
Don't hit the chickens. It's very bad for your health.

"Maybe it did, maybe it didn't," jab a heel into its side, to no effect. Flying fuck sighs, so I jab the horse again, with both heels this time. "I'm not holding anything against it, though." Zero effect.

So what the hell now?

-

VT2 - 2007


	3. True love at red's gate

True love at red's gate.

* * *

I'm all about killing these animated suits of armor, or whatever the hell they are. Somehow, my sword's able to not only damage them, but destroy them.  
Each swing splits open another metal body, but the lack of fluids makes me feel sad and empty, just like I'm supposed to feel.

Every time I swing, or thrust, I let out these pathetic grunts and shouts, and sometimes I leap after the suits. The question isn't why I'm fighting them, but why I'm such a pussy when it comes to the vocal side.  
Just pathetic. Why can't I mute myself?

I've got everything but a remote and a kitchen-sink. Why? How? What for?  
Shut up.

So I battle them for like four-hundred fucking hours, drenched in my own sweat, which only makes me look even more like a fag - all toned, oiled, greasy, and shiny. Every intake of air makes my chest heave like that of any given female, and every exhale kills my will to live further. Beats it.

At last, after those four-hundred fucking hours have passed, and all magically animated suits of armor in Hyrule have been chopped to bits, I stumble into this pimping chamber, and I just can't control myself.

"Red is so your color!" and I regret my words the moment they leave my face, and all I want to do is die, but that's not possible, because I'm the hero, and I have an unlimited supply of semen, virgin blood, blue-berry juice, and absinthe. You can't die with those odds, and there's no discard-command, and I never get hit, and everytime I sleep I wake up refreshed.

I want to die.

"And who asked you?" someone's playing on a massive organ - that is, someone is stroking a giant slab of meat, repeatedly, while seated in a pimp-bed of epic proportions. Golden skulls with silver wings serve as bedposts, and everything's obviously made from silk and all this other expensive shit. "More importantly, what are you doing in my bedroom?"

"What the fuck am I supposed to answer that with, huh?" I just snap. Throw my sword and shield in a pile, just because I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. "Do you think I want to be here? At this place? At this hour? Watching you?"

He nods. Twice.  
"That's why you're here," then he taps the obscenely huge bed, and I-I-I-I don't know. Really, I don't know. Everything feels so dumb, so weird, and so out of place, but what the hell can I do to change it? Nothing, that's what. He snakes around, twists and turns, like he's really out for blood or cum tonight, or whatever time it is. "Had another rough day?"

"Oh, if you only knew," then I march right over to the bed. Yeah. Still drenched. Just for good measure, I put my right hand on my hip, then I wipe my forehead with the left arm - achingly slowly, while making yet another mysterious sound. "So, uhhh," I'm a fucking whore, "wanna fuck?"

Another nod, then he's all over me. Forehead covered by a damned tiara of gold and silver, decked out with rubies and yet more gold and silver. He's not naked, since that's just too dumb, but his pants are nowhere to be seen.  
Oh, black, satin, clothes of comfort and peace of mind. It's like a dream, then he grabs my effeminately thin neck, and shoves my face into his own, and our eyes close at the same time.  
A second later, I've got my tongue down his throat, and his hands are rubbing all over my unmanly chest of girlish beauty and elfish pride like it's second nature - like it's what he's been waiting for. Like it's what I've been waiting for all along.

We don't part. We simply won't do that, and his hands move. Left grabs my right upper arm hard, squeezes it, while the right hand's going across my throat and the left side of my face. Me, I just stand and take it.  
Passive, because I'm a slut, while he has his way with me.

The flesh between his legs is even harder now, rubs against my midsection, because he's a giant, and I'm just a pretty, straight, boy, armed with a six-pack of beer and a baseball cap.

Without warning, he leans backwards slightly, then sweeps my legs out from beneath me. This is where we part, and I moan out in delight and pleasure while we take to the bed - me riding his stomach and chest, cock on my white-clad ass, which is instantly smeared.

This is just lovely. What I always wanted. A troll, or a nigger, or a brute, or a gray golem - or whatever - having his way with me. I should fight, but I won't, because I can't. Maybe the sin and the shame will kill me, finally.

His massive hair of red lures me in, and those eyes - oh, Jesus, those eyes.  
You can't beat them. He's strong, he's tall, he's got more than enough gear for seven of me, his arms are as wide as my nec- the neck of a regular person, that isn't a faery-elf, and the black. The black. And the red.  
Oh, I'm melting.

Bring my head in real close to his left ear, then I whisper sweet shit with meaning behind it.  
"I love you so fucking much," the truth, "Ganondorf."

-

"Oh, fuck!" I'm on my feet in seconds, a sword in each hand. All nude, all wearing that ugly green Santa-hat I hate so much it's scary. Why? Why must I suffer so, when everyone else is happy, at least to some extent?  
Must be a rule of nature. Rule of nature.  
I'm hated by everyone, including my own brain, and that's why I can't even pleasure myself without disgusting myself at the same time.

-

VT2 - 2007


	4. The dilemma

The dilemma

* * *

So it's another day on the job, right? Yeah, exactly.  
Oh, sure, I have one of those, since being a hero kinda qualifies. Does my happiness matter? No? Does the happiness of everyone else matter? No. So what matters?

Repetition, profit, fame, and the fact that shit gets done.

"Mister faery, sir," a lesbian-in-training's somewhere below me, bitching and talking and thinking and enjoying. Plenty of idiots around, plenty of stuff going down. Put simply, I'm in a village. The name doesn't matter, nor does the general setting, or even names or descriptions of the people that live in this particular village. "There's this temple nearby, and someone has to clean it of all evil." She smiles like the fake dyke she is as I look down upon her. Or him.  
Can't be sure, since it's easy to confuse gender when there are no breasts, facial hair, or crotches to speak of.

Details aren't important.  
Obervation's not important.  
Awareness is even less so.  
Fun's not gonna happen.  
Feeling entertained has an even slimmer chance of baring itself.

"Fuck you, kid," faery-thing mutters. I'll never figure out where it keeps the lung-capacity for the voice. Some buzzing, glitter all over my shoulders and green Santa-cap, but it still stays out of my reach.

"So," don't know why I bother, but I look around a bit. Maybe it's the last of my false compassion slipping away, "where's this temple of yours?"  
Area's packed with kids that have come to watch the true, green, Hylian hero, not to mention his twisted form, in action.

Fingers are raised at, you guessed it, a trail leading to the cemetery, which was cleverly placed outside the village upon its founding.

-

And it's all bland, because.  
"You can't pass here," some fat guy proclaims, while chewing on what looks like a cock crafted from sugar. He's not really blocking the gate, or anything, he just stands there, and won't let me through. Reasons? He doesn't have any. They never do.

"Just tell me what I need to fetch you, oh, mighty fat one," finish with a silly bow, which elicits a dumb giggle from the flying piece of shit hovering to my right.  
More sparkling stuff, more faggotry, more ugly stupidity. It's like a pride-festival, only somehow more gay. Probably because the thing never runs out. Probably.  
Possibly.

"I want," definitely. The fat coughs, then demands shit, "a chicken, so I can wake up my lolicon, two bottles of manseed, four undead spiders, and a huge wallet." Fat face. Fat legs. Fat arms. Fat, fat, fat.

He's probably fucking with me. He has to. No one's this stupid.  
No one.  
Wait. Slow down.

Slow down.

"What the fuck?" even gesticulate wildly. "So I have to pay to save you, your village, and all the dykes and fags in the known universe? Seriously, what is your problem?"

"He's not into faeries like you," mosquito chimes in. I'm about to smack it again, for having lingered a bit too close, but it ditches the air around me the moment I notice.

Fat just stands there. Fat.  
So I unsheathe my sword. Fat.  
Then he looks at me - again. Fat.

"I have a sword," flail it around in his general direction. "See? It's sharp, made of metal. Purple metal, and blue metal, and it has all this bling on it, and wings, and shit that makes no sense," and I wheeze, and it sounds even more feminine than my usual voice, "much like your demands." Oh, I want to die.

Please, kill me. Anyone, anybody, anything. I should not be.  
"It's going to cost you," shine up. Feel the breeze, rush of blood to the face, and a smile almost creeps its way onto my facial features - almost, so very, very close. Oh, yes, "ten dollars."

-

"Now you're sucking again!" idiotic thing whines while buzzing around my head. I respond by trying to hit it half-heartedly with my free hand. "Faeries are supposed to have a grand charisma-score, and be fully capable of dealing with anyone who wants to buy, barter, discuss, or sell anything!"

"Oh, that's a common misconception," tire of the game, at last. Blade leaves the fat for the tenth and final time with a meaty sound, and what remains is a mess of pale skin, red liquid, and yellow chunks thrown in a healthy mix. Ground's gory, his limbs have all been hacked off - all five, and I took the liberty of stabbing him through the throat as well. "In reality, faery-elves are superior at everything, including," wipe the bloody blade on my left leg, "but not limited to; pleasuring members of the opposite sex, pleasuring members of the same sex, striking down anyone who gets in the way, copping a feel, masturbating," three wipes aren't enough, so I go for a fourth, "enjoying life, and," fifth, then I stop caring, "getting somewhere."

I look like a murderer, but no one cares. No one watches. No one even bothers to consider things.  
Why should I sheathe my sword? Why?  
There is no answer, because there's not even a demand for me to do it. Exactly. Theoretically, I could butcher the entire village, then cum all over the parts, and none would be the wiser. No cops. No officers. No military. Not even a single militia.  
In Hyrule, everyone trusts everyone, and everyone is completely oblivious to the blank stares, empty faces, and dumb ultimatums waved around like massive dicks by everyone.  
'I want a cock.'  
'I want a bomb.'  
'I want cash.'  
'I want a pair of used panties.'  
'I want to be someone else.'  
'I want to have a balanced body and a working voice.'

"We both know exactly how skilled you are at those things," I don't want a gender. I don't want a face, and I most likely don't want a background-check, or even a basic, medical check-up. All I want is to stuff that flying thing up, then blow a load inside it so it explodes.

"We sure do."

-

VT2 - 2007


	5. Let's dance

Let's dance

* * *

What strikes me as odd, as I strike down zombie after zombie, is how all villagers in the world fear them, yet they don't ever move against them. Zombies obviously have a thing against leaving their not-so secret bases of decay and rotting meat, and the two forces have probably never met.

Because there is balance in nature, it's safe to say that villagers and zombies aren't enemies as such, or even rivals. Hell, zombies are content with humping the legs and torsos of helpless travelers - me - while the villagers only seem to exist while day reigns, during which time they stand around the same spot and spit dumb fuck at anyone who approaches them - me, again.  
So I'm really not needed, at all, and the two sides hate me, and that's why I'm forced to slaughter zombies and run errands for everyone, including the occasional zombie, cross-dresser, and preteen love-child.

So the story goes.  
"Mess their shit up!" fly shouts, then I jam my sword through the head of the closest zombie. They don't bleed, they don't whine, and they don't demand anything. They simply walk towards me, then they're killed. Life should be that easy, that free.

I mean, what the hell? What do I get out of doing this? I don't get laid, I don't get rich, I don't get famous, I don't make any friends, I don't learn anything, I don't discover the meaning of life, and, and.  
It doesn't make me happy.

"Shit!" shit! A withered head goes flying. What the fucking hell? No.

"So what's bothering you this time, faery?" It's senseless and useless, like the common idiot's fantasy regarding female virginity-loss. A fleshy barrier, located deep, deep inside. You can touch it with your tongue if you feel like it, and the first time's always bloody and gritty like fuck, with rivers of red. No. Shut up. That's period-sex; strawberry love, and it should come complete with plenty of strawberry gashes, and hugs, and the feeling that you do belong - somewhere.

"I don't want to live, yet I do live," sever the legs of another one, "and that makes me angry, because I can't end this shit." I'm always justified, and when I do get angry, it's always for a damn good reason. Suicide? God, no, that shit never works. You drop off a ledge, then you fall a thousand fucking feet down, and what happens next? You can't move for a few seconds, and your legs and knees whine out and complain on your current suckage-level.

Around me, scattered like broken toys, are the limbs, heads, and torsos of no less than fifty zombies. All dead people have been killed.  
It isn't possible to savor the scene, because it's fake, and uglier than love. Parts, heads, but no red. There's not even green goo.

Now, the big question is why I did this.  
I don't have an answer, no, but that doesn't automatically make my actions wrong, bad, or twisted. See, I can explain this. Really, I can, if someone gives me a chance and time to do so.

Okay.  
Yeah.

Shut up! It's not my fault that I can't rationalize so soon after a mass-murder. Everyone would be in the very same spot as I, only they wouldn't be this calm. No.  
No, they wouldn't. I know it. I can feel it.

Or maybe I can't.

"You're such a pussy."

-

VT2 - 2007


	6. Improvisation

Improvisation

* * *

We're back in dungeonland, and it's as dank, dark, and dumb as ever. D 'n D just got owned by its third part, if you ask me.  
Fuck - slippery stones abound, and my ass grinds down to the starting point more often than niggers say 'yo'  
"Bitch, move," I'm being threatened by my lightsource again. Why, I don't know. Do I care? No, not at all. "Why are you so slow? Panties riding up your ass again?" Oh, god, I just want a friend.

Repeat to self, slowly: being a regular pretty boy is far superior to being an adventuring pretty boy.  
But then again, I guess lusting after red-haired men, who aren't as manly as you think, fitted with bling made for, and by, females, that come complete with large, jewish noses, and just as much gold, I might add, is pretty fucking adventurous to me.

Not that, you know, I'd ever do such a thing. Too repressed - way too repressed.  
God, I can't even contruct lawful sentences in my head.

"Yeah, yeah," play it like I've got confidence, which means that I obviously don't like getting bossed around by something the size of my thumb, "whatever, whatever." If only that piece of shit light came just slightly closer, I'd squash it without thinking twice. When you're cool, everything comes in pairs. Just like balls.  
What the fuck?

Seeing as I'm still hated by the world, and still not allowed to die, I'm forced onwards by an unseen force - something that loves pretending it's jerking me off.  
Stuff's stroked, things twitch in an unnatural fashion, and items click mechanically as I leap with furious howls from pillar to chunk of stone to enemy-infested grounds to locked doors to something that my cunning mind tells me resembles the Blue oyster bar.

So I pretend that my tight muscles don't contract everytime I'm hanging from ledges, and that I'm not making 'unf'-sounds each and every single occasion where I stop hanging, and actually pull myself up. Why's this so repetitive?  
Well, probably because I've done it a million-fucking-billion times before, and the rewards are, as always, obvious and as bland as sunlight filtered through a dusty room.  
Just not good for anything.

Like yours truly, only not that bad.

Shit that's easy to kill swarms me, but it's not enough to bring me out of this droned daze I've been put in. Arms flail some, cringeable sounds escape my bitchy mouth, and things slowly, ever so slowly, starts rolling downhill. Because I can, I start likening lopped-off heads and violent sprays of blood to massive orgasms.  
Shield's useless, doesn't do fucking shit. Stabbed by a murky twig, or whatever, and it hurts like a motherfucker, despite hitting the piece of metal. Must be my frail arm that sucks, since faery arms are known for doing just that. Or maybe jerking is more in character.

"How long have we been doing this?" it's a legitimate question, you see, and by including the fly, it's trapped. "I don't remember getting started, or ever stopping. Is this really real?"

Light intensifies, sparkling shit starts to rain.  
"I know what you're thinking," buzzing. Taunted while wiping sweat from my forehead, making the least manly sound ever, and drinking something white I keep in a bottle. What is this white liquid, you may ask? Well, I'd rather not go into that, no, "but you're not gonna get nigger cock today," a feminine giggle I desire, "or any other day."

Words are as surreal as dreams, thoughts matter little in the long run, wishes are eternal in a painful sense, and life makes you bleed.  
"Why's cock such a big issue to you?" har har. I make funny - durr. Someone, shoot me. With an arrow.  
Hard.

I swear, they happen automatically.  
"Oh, I'm just following my owner's set example," owned, and it hurts more than dry virginity-loss to an ebony spear of epic girth. Look, I just know these things, okay? Okay. Don't question my authority. Please don't.

So we come upon this awesome chest, and it reaches not even above my really manly groin, and I see it - I see it. This is the end of this one. It must be.  
Soon, I'll open that shit up, I'll take whatever's inside it, steal it, run like a small child chased by a blinged-out nigger out - the fuck out - of here, and then. Then.  
Then I'll be free, until the next time.

Sigh deeply, flex my shoulders. Someone very tiny claps hands, and I just know who it is, but to hell with that buzzing thing for now. It's all a matter of timing, technique, and pure charisma.  
One step towards the bo- chest. Check.  
Sword in left hand, shield in right. Make sure they wobble lots. Check.  
Look as if I've got heavy-ass tits beneath my tunic-covered spandex. Check.  
Bob head. Check.

"Do it, you motherfucker!" it's intense, never-ending pain, and it's all because of sex.  
Soon, it will all be over.

"I'll fuck your mother," take some tone, and lean into a mighty kick, "right after I fuck you - up." Giggles, frowning.

Boot meets murky, ancient, reinforced wood, lid slides open through magical means, and I lean over, into the big box, bathed in golden light, the shine and warmth of which can only be described with one phrase: squirting orgasm.  
Get out of it, leave the warm, womb-like feeling behind, then I reach into the air, and in my hand is a, a.

"Another bottle."

-

VT2 - 2007.


End file.
